Chapter 14

14

ISOLDE

T he sound of voices filled the grand entryway of the mansion as Isolde descended the staircase, her resolve as delicate and sharp as the silk dress skimming her curves. Her decision to attend Councilman Bradford’s fundraiser had come to her in the hours following Callum’s departure, a bold and reckless plan that she knew could only lead to further entanglement. But it wasn’t just her safety at stake anymore. The tangled web surrounding the foundation, her family, and Callum’s world needed clarity. And this was the only way she could find it.

Callum’s men had kept their distance, but they were always present—shadows she couldn’t shake. Two of them stood near the entrance to the study now, their broad shoulders and dark suits radiating quiet authority.

“I need to speak to you,” she said, her voice calm but firm.

The taller of the two men, a dark-haired enforcer named Tiernan, stepped forward, his expression unreadable. “What about?”

“I’m attending the fundraiser tonight. Councilman Bradford is hosting it at my friend Siobhan’s gallery. If I don’t show up, it will raise questions—and not just about me. The foundation’s reputation is at risk.”

Tiernan exchanged a glance with his companion, then frowned. “Callum won’t like it.”

“I’m not asking for his permission,” Isolde said, trying to keep her tone neutral, although her heart twisted at the thought of what Callum would say—or do—when he found out. “This is about optics. If I disappear entirely, Bradford will smell blood in the water. We can’t let him think he’s won.”

The second man, a stocky blond named Quinn, folded his arms. “You want us to take you into the lion’s den so you can what? Mingle?”

Isolde lifted her chin. “I want to gather information. If Bradford’s working with Eoin Lynch, this is the perfect chance to learn more. You’re his spies, aren’t you? You’ll be there. Keep me safe and out of trouble.”

Tiernan’s jaw clenched as he pulled his phone from his pocket. “This isn’t up to us.”

“I’m not waiting for him to?—”

Tiernan raised a hand, silencing her as he dialed. The call connected quickly, and the low, gravelly tone of Callum’s voice carried through the air like a current of electricity.

“She wants to go to Bradford’s event,” Tiernan said without preamble.

The line crackled with silence before Callum’s reply came, cold and clipped. “Let her.”

“Boss, are you sure?” Tiernan asked, his tone wary.

“I said, let her. Walsh will meet you at the gallery with backup. Keep her in your sights at all times.”

Isolde’s stomach tightened as Tiernan pocketed the phone, his dark eyes narrowing on her. “You heard him. You’re going, but we’re running the show.”

“Fine,” she said, though her voice wavered slightly. She turned on her heel and walked away before they could see the flicker of nerves crossing her face.

That evening, the glittering lights of Siobhan’s gallery illuminated the night like a beacon, its modern, glass-and-steel facade gleaming in the rain-slicked streets. Isolde stepped out of the sleek black car, the hem of her emerald silk dress brushing against her heels as she accepted Tiernan’s arm for balance.

“You’re sure about this?” he murmured as they approached the entrance.

“I’m sure,” she said, though her heart hammered against her ribs. She wasn’t just walking into a fundraiser—she was stepping into the enemy’s lair, wearing a wire that would transmit every word directly to Callum’s team.

Inside, the gallery buzzed with life. Guests in designer gowns and tailored suits moved through the space, their voices a symphony of polite laughter and murmured conversations. The smell of champagne and fresh flowers filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of oil paint from the exhibits on display.

Isolde forced a smile as she greeted familiar faces, her fingers tightening around the clutch that concealed the device feeding her every word back to Rory, and Walsh. Tiernan was moving through the crowd unobtrusively, keeping an eye on her. Her gaze swept the room, locking briefly on Councilman Bradford near the far wall.

As she made her way toward him, Isolde could see he was flanked by aides and sycophants, his smile practiced but cold. She recognized the sharp glint in his eyes as he turned to her, his expression shifting into one of feigned warmth.

“Ms. Fitzwilliam,” he said smoothly, extending a hand. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it tonight.”

She took his hand, her own grip firm despite the nausea roiling in her stomach. “I wouldn’t miss it, Councilman.”

“Good,” he said, stepping closer. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you about Callum Kavanagh. I understand the O’Neill organization has taken quite the interest in your foundation.”

Her pulse spiked, but she forced her features to remain composed. “A connection my father fostered, I’m afraid. That’s part of why I’m here tonight. I thought you might have advice—or connections—to help me extricate the foundation.”

The lie slipped from her lips as easily as breathing, and Bradford’s expression flickered with something predatory. She resisted the urge to glance at the clutch that concealed the transmitting device. Quinn had told her they would find it in a cursory search, and if they used a wand, she should simply put the clutch down and step away from it. Callum’s team was listening. She had to keep him talking.

The buzz of conversation and the clink of crystal glasses created a fragile symphony in the glittering room, but none of it registered with Isolde. She sipped champagne, the bubbles tickling her throat as her eyes darted across the sea of faces. Her dress—a deep emerald silk that clung to her curves and whispered over her skin as she moved—was as much armor as it was camouflage. Tonight, she was playing a part, and her life might very well depend on how convincing she could be.

Her pulse stuttered when her gaze landed on a familiar face across the room. Deirdre Lynch.

The woman was as poised and dangerous as Isolde remembered, her fiery hair swept into an elegant knot, her dark eyes scanning the room with a predator’s precision. Deirdre stood near the edge of the crowd, her smile cool and calculating as she spoke to a man Isolde didn’t recognize. The sight of her sent a cold prickle down Isolde’s spine. Where Deirdre went, Eoin Lynch was never far behind.

Her hands clenched around the delicate stem of her glass, and she forced herself to breathe. You can do this, she told herself. But she was certain she could feel a faint vibration from her clutch, a constant reminder that every word, every move she made, was being monitored. Callum’s men were here. Walsh was watching. She wasn’t alone.

But that didn’t mean she was safe.

“I wondered if that might not be why you are here…”

“Let me assure you Councilman, I am here to support my friend Siobhan…”

Bradford nodded—all smiles. “I’m sure you are. But I did wonder with all the trouble surrounding your foundation lately, if you might have better things to do than attend fundraisers.”

Isolde took a sip of champagne to cover the tightening in her throat. “O’Neill and Kavanaugh have taken certain liberties, about which I’ve only been recently made aware. I’m sure you understand how delicate these matters can be.”

Bradford’s eyes narrowed, the mask of civility slipping just enough to reveal something colder beneath. “Oh, I understand far more than you think, Ms. Fitzwilliam.”

The room seemed to tilt slightly, the buzz of champagne mixing with a sudden rush of fear. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re up to?” His lips twisted into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re out of your depth, my dear.”

Isolde’s heart slammed against her ribs, her mind racing as she scrambled for a response. How did he know? How much did he know?

“I—” she began, but Bradford’s hand shot out, gripping her arm with enough force to make her wince.

“Let’s have a proper chat, shall we?” he said smoothly, his smile returning as he steered her through the crowd.

The pressure of his fingers dug into her skin as he guided her toward a hallway at the back of the gallery. Isolde’s eyes darted around the room, searching for Walsh, Tiernan—anyone—but the crowd felt like a sea of strangers, their faces blending into a blur.

“Councilman,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady, “I don’t think this is appropriate?—”

“Nonsense,” he interrupted, his grip tightening. “You wanted my help, didn’t you?”

The hallway was dimly lit, the muted hum of the party fading as he led her to a heavy oak door. He pushed it open, revealing a small, lavishly furnished office. And there, sitting casually on the edge of a mahogany desk, was Eoin Lynch.

The room spun as Isolde registered his presence. Lynch was as imposing as ever, his sharp features and cold eyes cutting through her like a blade. He smiled, a predator’s grin, as Bradford shoved her inside and closed the door behind them.

“Well, well,” Lynch drawled, his Irish lilt as smooth as silk. “If it isn’t the lovely Ms. Fitzwilliam. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you properly.”

Isolde’s breath caught as Bradford released her arm, leaving her standing in the center of the room like prey in a den of wolves. She could feel the hum of the tiny transmitter in her clutch, its presence a lifeline she desperately clung to.

“I’m not sure what you think you’re doing,” she said, forcing her voice to remain steady. “But this is highly inappropriate.”

Lynch chuckled, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Inappropriate? Oh, love, we’re far past worrying about propriety.”

Bradford moved to the desk, pouring himself a glass of whiskey as if he had all the time in the world. “Your father was smarter than this,” he said, his tone almost conversational. “He knew how to keep his head down. But you… you’re reckless. Stupid, even.”

Isolde’s pulse thundered in her ears. “Leave my father out of this.”

Lynch tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over her like a predator assessing its prey. “Your father’s very much in this, love. And so are you. The question is, how much are you willing to give to get out?”

Her stomach churned, but she held her ground, her voice sharp. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do,” Bradford said, his smile cold. “You’re just like him, you know. Willing to do whatever it takes to protect your little empire. The only difference is, you’re not half as clever.”

Lynch’s smile widened. “But don’t worry, love. We’re here to help you fix that.”

The air in the room was suffocating, the walls closing in as Isolde tried to think, to plan. The wire. Walsh and Tiernan were listening. They had to be. The room smelled of stale whiskey and cold, unyielding malice. Isolde was surprised when her head snapped to the side as Lynch cracked his hand across her face, splitting her lip, the sound reverberating through the dimly lit space. Pain bloomed hot and fast, her skin stinging where his ring had scraped her cheekbone. His cold, calculating eyes bore into hers, a predator's smirk tugging at the corners of his cruel mouth.

“You think this is about power or money, don’t you?” Lynch growled, his voice low and venomous.

Isolde forced herself to meet his gaze, despite the throbbing in her face. “What else could it possibly be?” she spat, her voice trembling but defiant.

Lynch’s smirk twisted into something darker, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “It was never just business, you stupid girl. The Fitzwilliams stole from my family—humiliated us. Your father robbed us of land that was ours by right, and for that, I want blood. I would’ve had my vengeance years ago if the bullet meant for him hadn’t killed your mother instead.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from her lungs. “My mother…” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You—you killed her?”

Lynch leaned closer, his breath hot against her skin as his voice dropped to a whisper. “She wasn’t supposed to die. That was on him—on your precious father. He should’ve taken that bullet, and you know it.”

Isolde’s hands trembled, but her fury burned brighter than her fear. “You murdered her. And now you want me to pay for it?”

“No, love,” Lynch sneered, straightening and adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. “I want your father to pay. And you… you’re just the perfect leverage to make that happen.”

The room swirled around her as the gravity of his words settled in her chest like a stone. But even as fear threatened to overwhelm her, a spark of defiance flickered in her heart.

“You’ll never win,” she said, her voice low but steady. “Not while I’m still standing.”

Lynch chuckled darkly, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. “Oh, we’ll see about that.”

And with that, he turned away, leaving her to fight the storm raging inside her, she couldn’t fail to see the predatory glint in his eyes and wondered if help would come in time.